


Pure

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baptism, Dean's Soul, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve never been worried about your mortality before,” Castiel had said when they left ten minutes before, Dean silent until they had reached the highway, en route to the first body of water they could find. “Why now?”</p><p>
  <i>Because I don’t want to live without you,<i> Dean had longed to say. Instead, he had ended with, “I need this,” and left it at that.</i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pure

The Flint is higher than normal when Castiel leads Dean down its banks, the water lapping at the disappearing shoreline, jagged rocks and sand crunching beneath their shoes. Dean slips his boots off first, stopping along the water’s edge while Castiel shrugs out of his coat, folding it atop a dry section of dirt. It's the weirdest thing Dean’s ever asked, for Castiel to take him down to the river a few miles from their motel in Leesburg in the dead of night, out of sight of passing cars and whoever might be fishing at that hour.

Two AM, and they’re trudging into the dirtied water beneath an abandoned train trestle with their pants pulled up to their knees. Not that they’ll be dry for long anyway, but it’s the sentiment. Castiel tugs Dean deep into the water until they’re submerged to their waists, his skin warm, a sharp contrast to the chill seeping into his clothes. Maybe they should have done this in the summer, when the water’s warmer and they won’t risk losing a limb due to sheer negligence.

But Castiel holds Dean through it, Castiel’s touch enough to warm his blood, keep him sane. This was Dean’s idea, after all—take off while Sam’s asleep and have Castiel dunk him in the middle of some river, all in the name of cleansing his soul. “You’ve never been worried about your mortality before,” Castiel had said when they left ten minutes before, Dean silent until they had reached the highway, en route to the first body of water they could find. “Why now?”

 _Because I don’t want to live without you_ , Dean had longed to say. Instead, he had ended with, “I need this,” and left it at that. Whether Castiel had understood, he doesn't know. Neither spoke a word of it until now, Castiel’s hand skirting up his back, blazing over the fabric of his t-shirt. Maybe he should’ve taken everything off—at least then, he wouldn't have to drive back in soggy clothes. But apparently modesty comes first, especially in front of _Castiel_ , the Angel about to baptize him in the middle of nowhere Georgia.

“You’re allowed to change your mind,” Castiel offers, a final out. There’s something soft in his eyes when Dean looks at him, the moonlight reflecting off cobalt, deeper than ever. It takes every fiber of Dean’s being not to give in and kiss Castiel right there, bury his fingers in his hair and drag him to the banks, delve in something decidedly un-Christian.

“I want this,” Dean mutters instead and lowers his head to Castiel’s neck, breathes him in. Grounding, familiar—it brings him to his senses long enough to nod, to give himself over to Castiel’s steady hands.

“You’re scared,” Castiel guesses, quiet. Under the cover of night, Dean nods and closes his eyes, sucks in a breath. “You shouldn't worry—.”

“But I do.” Dean shakes his head. _And I’ll never stop_. “Sam’s probably gonna head upstairs, but me… I got Hell on my soul, Cas.” He stops, breathes. “I need to know we’ll all be up there.”

 _Together_.

“This is for yourself.” A nod; again, Castiel strokes his hand over Dean’s back, eventually settling between his shoulder blades. “You’re sure?”

“…Yes,” Dean affirms, eyes open. “Please.”

Dean watched a preacher once, in a backwoods church outside Boone; Sam, fearing for his soul a year after Stanford, had the man dunk him into a bathtub before the entire congregation, to much cheer and applause. Sam looked like a drowned rat in the aftermath. Never once have they mentioned that day again, and part of Dean still wonders if Sam even remembers it. Hell, Dean barely remembers last week, if he thinks about it.

This is different—there’s no audience, no grand ceremony, no scripture reading or hymns sung. The moon and stars are their lone audience while Castiel instructs him where to put his hands and how to position his body, how to hold his breath. “Have you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel starts, his voice loud in the riverbed, echoing through the pines, “accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?”

He wants to laugh. It’s part of the rites, but it’s still hilarious, the idea that God actually exists, that He had a Son whose death saved Mankind. Angels, certainly, but God? The Man still hasn't shown his face, no matter how hard Dean begs sometimes, when Castiel is gone and Dean’s left with the shattered remnants of his family and himself.

At his side, Castiel awaits an answer; Dean chokes back a retort and sucks in air, steadies his heart. “Yes,” he says, not necessarily a lie. He needs this—needs to clean himself, wash away the sin in his bones, leave his past behind. At least, in spirit. If all else fails, it’s the thought that counts.

Castiel presses a hand to Dean’s chest, over Dean’s own, and finishes the rite, his voice a near whisper in his ear. “And now, my friend, knowing that you've given your heart to the Lord, and that you’re resting entirely in His finished sacrifice for your salvation, I now,” Castiel stops to press his palm to Dean’s forehead, “gladly baptize you into the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Dean holds his breath while Castiel pushes him down, submerging his head under the muddied water for a short second; symbolic or not, relief washes over him when Castiel brings him back to the surface, Dean blowing water from his nose. He’s soaked to the bone, but he can’t bring himself to care, not with the way Castiel is looking at him, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. “How was that?” Dean sputters, shaking the water from his scalp.

“Perfect,” Castiel says; he runs his hand up Dean’s spine to cup his neck, lets his fingers curl into the soaked ends of Dean’s hair. Dean melts when Castiel pulls him in, honeyed lips sweet against his own, pure. “You’re free, Dean.”

Dean buries his head in Castiel’s neck and, embracing him with drying arms, whispers a thanks against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I SWEAR I'm almost done with my book. Like... thirty pages from finished. But I got an idea today and I did this in an hour. I promise I'm not abandoning y'all!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
